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by James C. Morehead
I've followed a cat, once.
She had beautiful brown fur
with long, black stripes,
and black eyes so pure
that no light could escape.
I followed her through a ravine
and stalked as she stalked,
careful not to creep too close.
A cat, you see, does not relax its guard:
an instinctive distrust
keeps her ever-watchful.
A rotten log collapses:
I tumble down a cliff of muddle leaves,
crushing sapling pines as I fall.
Rising to my feet, I see the cat sitting before me.
In those deep eyes is laughter:
it was I who was followed,
not her.
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Copyright 1980-2009 |
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